


What Lies Buried

by blink_fahrenheit



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies Aftermath, Feels, Gen, Tragedy, little bit of drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blink_fahrenheit/pseuds/blink_fahrenheit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Followup to "Thank You". The Battle of Five Armies is over, and Balin and Dwalin are left to ponder on what has been lost.</p><p>No gore, violence, or language. Just Manly Men in mourning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Lies Buried

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is later than I intended, so I'm sorry to anyone who was hoping to see more from me sooner! My laptop kind of killed itself for a bit and it's taken a while to get it back on track. Once again, thank you all for clicking on my story, and I dearly hope this is worth your while. I still don't own anything.

Balin found his brother in the remains of the throne room.

Dwalin was sitting on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, one hand on the floor behind him for support and the other cradling a bottle against his chest. He didn’t seem to notice Balin’s entrance. His eyes were fixed on the throne.

By some bizarre twist of fate, the seat of the King under the Mountain was still perfectly intact. The pillars lining the walls of the great chamber were a lost cause, and the walls themselves bore the scars that were to be expected in the lair of a fire drake, but the throne sat more or less as it always had. The only difference was that it was empty now.

Balin moved to his brother quietly, mindful not to break the silence that presided over the hall. Dwalin made no move to acknowledge him, even when Balin settled down on the floor next to him. They sat together in stillness for several long, somber moments.

When Dwalin spoke, it was in a low, husky tone of voice that Balin hadn’t heard since Moria. “I keep trying to picture Dain sitting in Thorin’s place. It’s not right.”

Balin nodded wordlessly and took the bottle from his little brother’s hands. He took a sip and set it down on the floor between them.

He could see it now, flickering in the torchlight. Thorin sitting on his throne, dressed as the king he was, face finally clean of the loss and strife that had taken residence there so long ago. Perhaps his lips would twitch into that little smirk that he’d worn as a young dwarf, wry and dignified and ever so slightly reproachful, but not cruel. Never cruel. It was already tipping over into a laugh.

“It’s his, brother,” Balin said gently. “Dain can sit there all he likes. He’d be a fool to think that Erebor knew any king but the one who fought for her.”

Dwalin hummed in agreement, eyes misting. He lifted the bottle once again and raised it into the air, half a toast, half a salute. “King under the Mountain,” he intoned. Balin made a fist over his heart and nodded solemnly.

“King under the Mountain,” he agreed. And then he was smiling with tears leaking down his face, and he couldn’t tell if the sound that escaped him was a chuckle or a sob. “Oh, by Durin’s blood, can you imagine Fíli answering to such a title?”

Dwalin croaked out the same kind of confused, weeping laugh and shook his head. “He’d grow a grey hair every time he heard it, poor lad. And then Kíli’d make a point of saying it forty times a day.” His face spasmed into an expression of hopeless, desperate grief as he uttered Kíli’s name. Balin’s heart squirmed at the sight.

The lads had joined their uncle at the throne. Fíli stood at Thorin’s shoulder, in the place of honor to his right. Balin watched him lean over to whisper something into Thorin’s ear, and the smirk on the king’s lips became a feral grin. It hadn’t been a joke that Fíli had shared, for he would never presume to jest while he stood to the right of the throne of Erebor, but his countenance held enough wicked mirth that Balin was sure it hadn’t been just news either. Kíli stood on the left, safely removed from any position of authority, slouching elegantly and rolling his eyes at the antics of his kin. He saw Balin watching and winked, good humor evident in his exasperation. 

“Do you think they would have had their own families?” The question caught Balin off guard with its wistful tone, and he looked to his brother with eyes that remembered every tear they’d ever shed.

“I hope so,” he whispered. Up on the right side of the king’s seat, he saw a golden haired child tugging at Fíli’s sleeve, her mother smiling gently a few feet away. Fíli’s grin was brilliant as he scooped up his daughter and pressed his face into her hair. When he set her down, it was with a knowing wink, and all of them laughed together as the child darted around to clamber up her uncle’s leg. Kíli had no children yet, but there was a soft shine in his eye as he laughed with his niece that made clear what he wanted from the coming years.

For there were so _many_ years in front of them, these phantoms. They had so much time to laugh around the throne of Erebor, while Thorin struggled to keep his scowl in place in the buttery warmth of family and love and hope. The Lonely Mountain was filled with peace, her beating heart secure in the chests of those that called her home.

And then they faded away, and Balin gripped his brother’s shoulder in an empty hall.

Dwalin shook his head. “It’s not right,” he repeated, the words so soft that they were nearly lost in the breath that carried them.

“No,” Balin said. “It’s not right.”

Far beneath them, three graves waited in silence for things that would never be, and Balin knew that Erebor had not been reclaimed at all. She was buried with her kings.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, technically, since this is a continuation, I've only REALLY killed them once. That's what I'm telling the little angry person in my head that keeps whacking me with the Stick Of Feels for writing more BoFA angst.  
> Please tell me what you think, and know that my undying gratitude is yours if you have constructive feedback to share.


End file.
